


in a kinder world

by camaliya



Category: TsukiPro the Animation
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, I wrote this for me but you can read it too if you want, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Light Angst, Self-Indulgent, Songfic, War, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-19 09:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29997075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camaliya/pseuds/camaliya
Summary: He closes his eyes, anddreams.
Kudos: 4





	in a kinder world

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Apostasy bridge.

He is so, so tired.

He can feel his muscles ache from exhaustion. His breaths come in short gasps, but he still maintains his expression to caution and indifference. He keeps his eyes glued to the battlefield, silent as it may be. He doesn’t want to put his sword back in its case. He can’t afford to let his guard down.

His vision goes blurry and that's when he knows he desperately needs to sit back. But not now, although it seems too tempting to just lie down and rest.

His mind takes him to simpler times; where red—his favorite color—adorns palace garden. Of flowers, fruits, trees, but especially a sapling where he and his companion expect small, round, and soft berries—what will one day become their little sanctuary.

He blinks and the scenery around him turns back into ashen grey. He can still smell blood clinging to him like shadows. Damp silver hair sticks to his face as sweat trickles down his chin. His hands feel clammy and if he doesn’t concentrate, his sword will slip from him. He grits his teeth and proceeds to take a step forward.

He knows what awaits him on the other side, ~~hisPrincehisdearfriendnonodon’tthinkaboutthat~~ his enemy. 

He remembers bright yellow hair, like sunshine. A cold gaze on their first meeting but instantly warms up into something soft after spending so many times together. Footsteps echo in harmony as they chase each other in the palace garden before they stop in front of a big tree. Tired as their bodies may be, their minds wander. Of a future ahead of them, days full of laughter and as peaceful as this is. Childish scribbles are engraved on the tree bark, along with giggles and _questions_ and _promises._

_Will you be the sword to my shield?_

_No_. He has to focus.

He ignores the dark thoughts clouding his mind, knowing that there’s nothing left for him. In this devastating world, it’s a luxury to think that all his loved ones somehow survived. His bleeding heart can’t allow even a flicker of hope to take root. His body and mind are already numb from all the ruin this world has brought him. 

Although, try as he might, he can feel his resolve waver. After all, what’s the point? His comrades are all dead, and what lays ahead in this bleak world is a piercing gaze of blue, hidden beneath golden locks. 

And he is just so _tired_. 

So he halts his footsteps and finds a dried wood to sit.

He closes his eyes, and _dreams._

**

_His gaze meets a field of lush greenery spreading open. Scent of flowers penetrates his sense of smell; along with the sound of water streams and birds twitters passing through his ears. Winds blow softly, caressing his hair along with gentle sunlight. A huge tree casts a shadow over him, and there’s something soft and round between his fingers. Curious, he lifts it to find a fruit from the tree behind him._

_It was a waxberry._

_He bites it; a sweet taste still so familiar in his mouth, even if he’s in an unknown land. He pockets it and begins to stand up. He glances at the straight road lying ahead; where many people come and go, groceries in hands, kids playing with their peers, chatters seemingly in tune with the chirp of birds—all paints a landscape so peaceful and full of life._

_He hesitantly takes a step forward._

_He sees a familiar face behind a fruit stall. Messy blue hair frames an unblemished face, a young man with a serious yet playful expression, and green eyes fix their gaze upon vibrant commodities. His hands move deftly in precision as he takes two apples and hands them to a woman in front of him. Said customer makes small talk as her right hand rummages in her pocket for money. A business exchange occurs, and they part ways with a hand wave from the patron and laugh lines decorating the vendor’s face._

_It suits him, far better than the haunted look he sees every time he pays his childhood friend a visit. They rarely talk nowadays and when they do, it’s filled with grim and uneasy smiles while conflicts are just around the corner. Never again about baking attempts, of egg shells and yeast on dirty bowls and slightly burnt cookies on their tray. Now, his hands find themselves wiping armor plates instead of smudged flour, and various kinds of swords hanging on his back, rather than a rack with baking utensils inside._

_His musing is interrupted by the sound of footsteps near him. He sees a blur of_ ~~_hischildhoodfriendnohe’sastranger_~~ _blue hair exiting the fruit stall, with an older man taking his place. He breathes in the scent of tangerine, ever so familiar despite not knowing a single thing about this man. With nothing to do, he follows him into the street._

_Careful stride meets light footsteps, and after a while they stop in front of a modest building. It was a two story bakery, with purple and cream paint on the wall. There’s a wisteria tree right in front of it, swaying gently. A hand pushes the door open, and he trails behind, doorbell chiming in their wake. He pauses at the sight before him._

_So the traveler is a baker now, huh?_

_He remembers a young man, with wild burgundy hair and sheepish smile. He introduces himself as a traveler, as if his brown cape and dirty bag aren’t quite telling already. He pulls out a lute and begins to chant songs from distant lands. Of languages unknown but emotions transmitted all the same. Of joy, sorrow, love, and dreams. Of stories for all ages, seemingly ancient and modern all together. Of worlds with ephemeral beauty unlike their own; flower scatters at gentle streams, birds with colorful feathers soar high in the sky, celestial winds with their powerful gust, and full moon glows brightly and remains undaunted by time._

_He watches as the vendor boy and purple baker chat amiably. The way they relax around each other and how casual their body language is suggest a long lasting friendship. It makes something in his heart ache, akin to longing. Even so, he can’t help but feast his eyes on their interaction—of something he might have lost, or just never was his to begin with._

_The doorbell jingles, signalling an entrance. He and the two young men pause their activities to see who at the door is. The appearance of the newcomer makes him gasp._

_There stands a florist, judging by the dirt in his apron and a potted plant with no flower nor fruit in his hands. He mumbles a greeting and scans the whole bakery. What steals his breath away is a pair of blue eyes, mullet tied in a ponytail, all too familiar; and currently makes his way to the men near the fridge._

_Said florist hands over the pot to the baker, who accepts it gracefully. Close here, he can smell lilies and fertilizer clinging to him. He eyes the scene before him, of now three men chatting together and how the florist seems to integrate seamlessly into the conversation. He tries to commit the image of the florist into his memory. The way his blue eyes hold something kind in them. The way his lips curve into a smile whenever he hears a joke. The way his laugh sounds so pleasant and contagious his companions can’t help but join in. The way they fit together like a complete puzzle stirs something deep inside him. If what he feels before was longing, now it sounds like heartbreak._

_He can't bear to be here any longer. He needs to go._

_Before he knows it, he finds himself miles away from where he came from. He takes a good look at his surroundings as he walks. Roses, daisies, lilies, geraniums, strawberries, oranges, blueberries, among many others—although plants with red and white stand out more. Something about this place rings a bell and he struggles to remember what it is. After what it seems like minutes, his brain provides him with an answer._

_It’s a perfect copy of a drawing he made years ago—a dream garden with all the red flowers blossoming under his feet, complete with a waxberry tree in the middle. He recalls Mother’s gentle expression and response when he showed it to her—this looks beautiful, what a charming garden; even more so with having plants with the same color as your eyes—and his child self had soaked up all the praises coming from her like a sponge._

_There’s a lump forming in his throat and suddenly the waxberry in his pocket feels too heavy. But the soldier in him chooses to march on; and it takes him no time to arrive at the waxberry tree._

_With trembling fingers, he traces the bark._

_There lies scribbles he knows all too well; of sword and shield together, side by side._

**

He opens his eyes, and… 

Bodies of fallen enemies and comrades greet him. He wills himself to not breathe—knowing if he does the smell of iron and gore will instantly fill his lungs, still pungent and sharp as ever. Ashes cloud the air, covering the sky in dull grey. Sword still clutched in his hand, and he tries so hard to tear his gaze away from what’s in front of him. Array of weapons sprawls along corpses, lays abandoned with their owner. Here he stands on a wreckage of a land that used to be bursting with life.

A bitter evidence of his war torn reality. 


End file.
